Stay
by rslhilson
Summary: He can't explain why she died...all he knows is that he needs House to stay. Post-Wilson's Heart; oneshot; attempted suicide. H/W friendship


_Stay_

The tears are slow, but strong.

They slide down his face like the raindrops on the windshield.

Her name is all around him, choking out of the engine and beating down from the sky and heaving out of his chest.

It's too dark to see, to hear, to scream. He can't even breathe.

But the car is fast and invincible, its wheels grinding down the road like the sobs from his throat. Tired and shaking, he hits the gas until he is flying, until the brakes are no more.

Knives pierce his skin, shattered glass and broken bones…

A broken soul.

He wakes and everything is bright, like the light in her eyes the last time he saw her smiling.

There's pain, so much pain, but it's been weeks since he's felt anything but anguish and he's so grateful he cries.

Someone calls his name, but he can't turn towards the voice. A shard of hope in his chest thinks that maybe it's her.

But it's Cuddy, and he doesn't know why it's Cuddy, because isn't he supposed to be dead?

He sleeps. Maybe next time, he'll get it right.

But the next time, it's dark, so dark he wonders if he's in Hell. Wouldn't that be funny, dying only to end up on the wrong side of oblivion? House would think it was funny, but too bad he'd never know.

His eyes begin to adjust, and as they focus he realizes that Hell looks a lot like a hospital room.

And if House is sitting next to him, maybe that's just where he is.

The diagnostician looks tired and defeated, like he hasn't slept or shaved or changed his clothes in ages. But more than that, he looks hesitant – uncertain. And that's not House.

But then he remembers why he's here. He's here because she died, and he'd wanted to die, and House had almost died for her – for him.

Something scrapes against the floor and he panics, watching as House stands to leave.

_"Stay,"_ he breathes. His voice is gone and his throat is parched, and the words are little more than air forced out of his lungs.

House pauses at the foot of the bed and turns to face him, still cautious and unsure.

"I can get Cuddy."

He tries to shake his head, but he can't. _"Don't go," _he whispers instead.

House still doesn't move, and he can see the assessments and calculations flashing behind those piercing eyes. They've known each other long enough for him to know when House is deliberating, weighing pros and cons and clinging to rationality.

But nothing is rational anymore. He can't explain why she'd been sitting in that seat on the bus, why the truck couldn't have been a second too late or a second too soon, why House could diagnose diseases from the fucking Amazon but couldn't save _her_.

He can't explain why Amber is dead.

And he can't explain why he's thanking a long-forgotten God that House had lived, even though she hadn't – why if House walks out that door, he may as well put him back in the car and take out the brakes and rev up the engine.

The deliberation is over. House sits back in the chair, still hesitant to get too close. But it's enough for now.

He blinks, and in that instant he can see Amber's soft blonde hair and gentle blue eyes, and he remembers her smooth skin brushing against his and the taste of her kiss. He hears the sweet, tender melody of her voice, and it's the sound of love and pain and sadness and _forgiveness_ and it's everything he feels.

Soon, when he has the strength, he'll set things right with House – let him know that he's sorry, and thankful, and that he shouldn't have walked away.

And he'll get better, too. It'll be long and slow and hard, because it's not just his body that's damaged and he's never had to heal from a hurt like this.

But suddenly, he doesn't feel so alone.

He closes his eyes, and rough but gentle fingers tentatively touch his hand. With all the strength he has, he grasps them.

_"Stay,"_ he murmurs again, just in case House has forgotten, just in case he doesn't know how much he's needed.

"I'm not going anywhere."

He relaxes, his grip fading as he gives in to sleep, and in the distance he hears House's voice again, softer this time.

"You're okay, Wilson."

Fighting sleep a little longer, he allows the faintest trace of a smile to cross his face. "Not...gonna call...me an idiot?"

His eyes are still closed, but he can feel House smiling back.

"Not tonight, Jimmy. Just sleep."


End file.
